


Coming Home

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward, Daydreams, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Mycroft wants to be close to you, Sexual References, book loving Reader, first home together, happiness, light - Freeform, mycroft is adorable, silly anxieties, sleepy reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 07:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14612601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Now that you've moved in properly together Mycroft just loves coming home to you.





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> To all my supporters thank you. :)

The time when the sky is torn somewhere between a navy and jet black, not quite yet splashed with stars, when the trees sway ever so slightly in the breeze and houses zip by like old-fashioned slides from the car window, when his back can be pushed into the slightly cracked leather seat and his hands can absent-mindedly work out a pattern as they curl up against it, when his eyes are allowed to be nearly shut, his skin as pale as the moonlight getting ready to rise and his ears can half-take in the contents of _Radio 4,_ which his driver insists on listening to. This is Mycroft Holmes’s favourite time of day because after a whole day of being forced to listen to the endless twaddle of those around him he doesn’t have the responsibility to any more. Letting out a bit of a groan he pushes further back still, leg muscles cracking, fingers flexing. 

He comes out of his cocoon a little as the black car-darker for now than the sky that’s around him and which glistens beneath the frequent streetlights-pulls up silently by the rain-splashed kerb. Thankfully the bad weather has retreated and Mycroft won’t need to open his umbrella, which takes more time and effort than he feels like making. The car though gives a little jerk, as he supposes the horses of old did when they arrived back home at the manor. It is a block of apartments that awaits him now though, the outside of which already looks old despite the fact that just a few months ago there had been signs around proclaiming them as new. Those same signs look battered and unkempt. Mycroft frowns at them. It is because of you that he has finally been driven out of his main home and into a place with smaller rooms, smaller everything. You had not been content in the old place though. You’d wanted it to work he could tell, and to feel comfortable there, but you’d found it too vast, like walking around inside a public library. Despite your fondness of books a library wasn’t the same as a home to you, he knew. You wanted something that you were both coming to equally, that wasn’t only furnished with his tastes, and so, after oddly enough not much persuasion at all, Mycroft had found this for you both. 

 

In the present, and by the time he has left his rather sleepy driver and the car for the chill flickering of the wind, walking quickly through hallway after hallway, head ducked down, he is feeling more awake.

 

He allows his mind to turn to you more so than it has done all day and begins to feel a curious thrill of excitement. Will you be up and waiting for him? He pictures walking through the door, you basked in a glow of warmth, as you turn to him from the settee-one of the things you’d fought over, he’d wanted leather and expense, you the soft comfort of a more welcoming material and soft had won out-a glass of red wine in your hand. You’d quickly deposit it and get up and he’d know the joy of what it’s like to have someone waiting for him to come home. He’d never experienced it as much in the old place because apart from arriving when he was already there you’d used the fact that the old lease hadn’t ended in your flat as an excuse and tended to avoid his place. With this one though, being both your homes now, he’s beginning to know what it feels like and it’s becoming a drug to him. He’d never known that it would mean so much to him, or perhaps he had, perhaps _that’s_ why he’d felt a keen sense of longing tear through him every time he’d unlocked the door to the old house and you hadn’t been there. 

 

Chest almost breathless in anticipation he inserts the key into the lock in a fumbling fashion. He imagines your ears pricking, head about to turn. 

 

The light is on, but you are not there. He makes quite sure that you’re not, eyes taking in some of the boxes that still lay about the place in a stacked fashion from not long having since moved in, before he deposits his briefcase and slides his umbrella into its holder. This holder is rather a fine one indeed, sturdy but elegant with a pattern like lace upon it. You’d bought it for him as a moving in present. He takes less care than he usually would with putting away his umbrella and is practically clumsy when it comes to shrugging off his coat. That too had been a present from you-a Christmas one. You’d thought the different shades of grey would go well with his auburn hair and blue eyes, whilst its three-quarter length would enhance his height even further. The coat stand wobbles a little as he puts his garment on it and he half-glances at it in annoyance. He’d brought it over from his old place and loved it at one time, but perhaps he should get a new one now? It does seem rather rickety. He cannot be too mad for long though, when, after looking around quickly again, he spots the abandoned book that’s upon the coffee table. The dratted glass contraption beneath the book is already scratched, but you’d seemed to think that it would be perfect when you’d spotted it in a second-hand store before, so he’d let you get on with it and accepted, rather dryly, that he wouldn't be the only one making the choices now. He looks back at the novel again. It is one of yours. A historical romance. This one is set in Victorian times. You’ve always loved tales like that. He’s often wondered if that’s why you’ve taken to him so much. Sherlock does so often like to joke that he belongs in a museum. Not next to the dinosaurs though. He hadn’t thought that far back enough. Mycroft tuts absent-mindedly at the memory and runs his slender fingers across the slightly battered cover-you love charity shops. He appreciates this new blurring of the lines between his things and yours more than he’d thought he would and almost scampers across to the bedroom on his tiptoes, keen for more. He switches off the light as he goes. 

 

A breath manages to escape him and he pushes the door open. It gives way with a bit of a creak and Mycroft feels a bit annoyed with the quality of these modern places. The door had been fine when you’d first moved in. His irritation ceases though, when, through the natural light that filters into the room through the gap in the curtains, he sees the bundle of you beneath the slate-coloured bed cover. Oddly enough the sight of you sound asleep rather than being all functioning and able to talk to him does not disappoint him. His heart becomes a paper aeroplane out of his love for you and seems to soar right across, going through you and right into your dreams. He steps a little closer, trying to be delicate, for even the sound of his dark shoes upon the navy carpeted floor seems loud. He watches you intently for a moment as if he’s about to paint you and holds back a chuckle and a shake of his head as he notices the way that your hands have pulled the pillow down. He’d used to find the act annoying. Used to stare at you in the dead of night and wonder if he could move your pillow to be level with his, so that everything would be in its place again. Now he just finds it slightly endearing. He truly _is_ in love! He turns, suddenly feeling shy, towards the wardrobe. It feels almost like a dream. That you are there, in the bed that you share of all places-his heart gives a little jump in his chest now, as if you have sent the paper aeroplane back to him with a message that says, _‘I'm here,’ ‘I'm here,’ ‘I'm here’-_ and that more than that you are content. He feels the silly urge to go back into the living area again to see all the signs of you being there like fingerprints and then stroll back and see the final proof here. He settles, of course, for looking over his shoulder from his inconspicuous spot in front of the wardrobe. He does not want to disturb you. It is enough to see that you’re still there, hair like a curled up flag against the pillow, eyelids soft and unwrinkled, the steady rise and fall of your chest, which he lets hypnotize him and the snuffling sounds you make. He turns back to the wardrobe again. He can watch you all he wants in a while, he instructs himself. First he must change. He opens the door and though he misses his walk-in one he uses the squeak of this one-you’ve promised him that it can be changed to be a little nicer and more practical-as an excuse to look back at you. You are still there. Still sleeping. _Good._ He returns to his task. 

 

Bit by bit he disperses of his clothing. His jacket, garters, blue tie, which he loosens with pleasure, before he tugs it off. Unhooks his braces, shirt…

 

He has just dropped his trousers to his ankles when he hears a soft moaning noise from behind him and the sound of you stirring. Hand still half-reaching to the floor he looks around anxiously at you. He watches as you roll onto your back, nose sniffing and wrinkling, before your hand goes up against the pillow and you resume sleeping again. 

 

Breathing a sigh of relief Mycroft hurriedly finishes undressing and decides not to bother with anything more than his boxers that night. He, a little selfishly perhaps, wants to shiver and feel every touch of your warm body whenever it should brush against his. He plans to press himself close to you. 

 

He closes the wardrobe door and carefully pulls the cover of the duvet back, eyeing you all the time. You let out a little satisfied sigh, which stimulates him, and then, as if he’ll die if he doesn’t or it will really all be a dream after all he practically jumps into bed beside you. The mattress springs complain and he stares at you worriedly with pursed lips, half-ruing his sudden movement and half-feeling breathless because of it. When you do not stir however he smiles in a rather mischievous manner and turns languorously towards you, eyes both hungrily and needily roaming down the expanse of s/c skin, lingering upon each eyelash, slope of nose, lips that leave him wanting, the curve of your neck…he shifts a little closer to you. He breathes in the scent of freshly laundered f/c pyjamas, combined with the moisturiser that you insist on wearing every night before bed and which has left him feeling impatient on more than one occasion. He’s been tempted to throw the thing out numerous times, but as he knows that you buy it and put up with its rather expensive price because you see it as your treat for yourself he does not do so. He also detects the surge of your favourite shampoo, which informs him that you must have had a bath or at the very least a shower that night. The greedy part of him half-wishes that he’d come home at that time instead now. How nice it would have been to unlock the door to the hum of your considering voice in the shower as you mused, which body wash to use or to see your skin encased in bubbles. Even the sight of you coming out of there in your white dressing gown, hair all mused and damp, would have been preferable to this sleeping version of you. He could have joined you had you still been in the bath though and feels hard from the very thought, but reminds himself, as he looks at you rather wistfully that this is hardly the worst case scenario. You in the bed that you share. Almost like you were waiting in a teasing fashion for him there. Like you knew it would drive him crazy. Waiting for him to slip beside you. His heart thrums in satisfaction now and he edges ever so closer to you. Almost instinctively and with a slight lack of care he finds himself adjusting his leg-dragging it up closer to his chest-and it knocks against yours on its way up there. Before he can do anything, which might make up for his error your eyes begin to flicker open. He moves a little back to give you some space and so you don’t wonder what he’s been doing. You let out a little groan and stretch your arms out, which Mycroft finds simply charming and fascinating in equal measure. He switches the bedside lamp on, so that he can see you more fully and bear proper witness to the glorious sight of you. Blinking profusely you seem to finally see him. 

 

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Your voice is rough with sleep, but you do truly sound apologetic. 

 

Mycroft is taken aback. “What on earth are you apologizing for?” That is the last reaction he’d expected to have from you and he begins to worry. Are you about to leave him? About to shatter his homecoming and the joy he’d got from having you there? His mind doesn’t allow him to think logically. 

 

Recognizing this you touch at his cheek, fingers curling around the smooth skin like a child’s hand around a favourite toy. “I wanted to wait up for you, but I-I just got s-so tired.” You finally release the yawn that you’ve been attempting to hold back, as if to prove such a thing. 

 

Mycroft’s heart immediately melts. “I’d rather you got rest if that’s what you need,” he tells you earnestly, eyes slipping down to your collarbone a little bashfully and then enjoying the sight of it too much to look elsewhere. He licks at his lips. He wants to touch the ridge of it there, maybe even lick at it in fact, but wonders if that would be terribly inappropriate. He jumps a little though when you move a little closer to him and breath flaring, kiss at the edge of his mouth, hand clutching slightly at his arm, fingers growing in confidence. 

 

“Sorry.” You pull back suddenly, shy now yourself. “My breath probably doesn’t smell the greatest.”

 

“Spearmint toothpaste,” he begins to recite without being able to help it, “The faint trace of the wine that you had when you first came home to reward yourself for a hard day’s work and then the coffee later on that you had to try and stay awake combined with the slight bit of garlic, tomato and mozzarella bread you had because you couldn't be bothered to cook anything properly. You know that I’d rather you tried to look after yourself though F/N, even if it was just a small meal you made.” 

 

“Well noticed,” you grin, accepting his last point without further comment, before you tease, “I'm just a puzzle to you aren't I Mr. Holmes?” You’re more awake now, just like you are whenever he should wander into a room and you’re growing more flirtatious as a consequence. 

 

“A wonderful one.” He smiles in a lopsided fashion at you, before he adds a bit more firmly, “Don’t ever apologize for not being able to stay awake. For being here.” His finger traces a path upon your arm. You look a little struck and taken by his words so he kisses you fiercely to both get you out of it and to try and explain some more. The elongated cry you let out makes all the blood in his body pool south and his mouth release a little grunt, whilst his teeth nip ferociously at your lips as they try to taste and consume you. Your body goes almost rigid against his in anticipation as he puts a hand behind your shoulder to steer you close. He grinds his hips against you a couple of times, before he realizes just how inappropriate what he’s doing might be and pulls back, terribly embarrassed. “My turn to apologize I think.” He draws away from you. “I did not mean to pounce on you.”

 

“I think that’s exactly what you meant,” you’re bold enough to say, before with flushed cheeks and bright eyes you quickly amend, “I don’t mind.” Turned on by the contrasts that you’re showing he kisses you softly and you accept the tongue that comes tentatively out like an animal sniffing the air to see whose been in its territory. That same tongue soothes at your lips and apologizes for its earlier aggression. He draws away from you again, looking uncertain. You smile and clear your throat. “H-How was work?” You attempt to tidy the collar of your top up. You’re both still a little unsure of how to handle all this. How much to say, not to say, how much to do, not to do…

 

Mycroft smiles a little indulgently at you and props his head up with his hand. He tells you some stories, which he hopes that you’ll find entertaining about how useless his colleagues are. One of them had even tried to call Paris that day and ended up in Brussels, talking to a resident who wasn’t even on the job. You have to laugh at Mycroft’s evident exasperation about it all. As he speaks your feet flirt in a fish like way beneath the covers, darting against one another, before your legs finally come to tangle together properly once he’s grown significantly warmer. He then asks the same question of you and wonders what you’ve gotten up to that day. He’s pleased to find that you similarly seem to have been storing up possible things to tell him and hums and chuckles in all the right places, liking the way that you talk. The pair of you relax and grow all the more comfortable with one another, both assured that in the time you’ve been apart your love for one another hasn’t dimmed or wavered. That he hasn’t regretted coming here with you despite all the different furniture and that you don’t want to move or are still not satisfied with how things are. He looks at you for a long time after you finish, not saying a word. 

 

 _“What?”_ you murmur once you start to feel uncomfortable with his blue-eyed gaze upon you. 

 

He does not even brush your face with the back of his hand to reassure you because he is trying to summon up the energy to be brave enough. “I am glad you moved in with me here,” he finally manages to say, a rather awkward half-smile upon his face, as he hopes that you won’t think any less of him or expect words like that all the time. His words mean everything to you though and you practically beam, your light shining brighter than that of the lamp. Assured he smiles properly at you and the pair of you kiss briefly again, before you settle against each other for the night, Mycroft’s arm making a brief trip to switch the lamp off.

 

“I'm glad too,” you say just before the light fades. 

 

He smiles.


End file.
